Provender Gleed

by James Lovegrove

  'Done it, Is,' he said, looking sidelong at his accomplice. 'We've done it. We've got him home.'

  'Not quite. We're not upstairs yet.'

  'Yeah, but. We've done the hard part. And I've got to say, you were brilliant. You really came through. I couldn't have managed it without you. You're a star.'

  'I did my best.'

  'No, I mean it. You're fantastic. You did everything absolutely right. The timing was perfect. You kept your nerve.'

  'There were moments...'

  'But you didn't lose it. It's all right to be scared as long as you don't lose it, and you didn't, and that's true class.'

  'Thank you, Damien.'

  His eyes took on a mournful look which, alas, she knew only too well. 'Why did we ever split up, Is?' he lamented. 'What happened? What went wrong? Why did we just ... fall apart like that?'

  There were a hundred possible answers, and almost all of them ended with ...because you're a possessive, jealous, tantrum-prone egomaniac, Damien. Is chose instead to deflect the question with a shrug, saying, 'Let's just concentrate on this, eh?' She nodded towards the boot. 'Leave the soul-searching for another time.'

  Damien studied the backs of his hands for several seconds, then opened the door and climbed out. Opening one of the rear doors, he learned in and took a pair of overcoats off the back seat. He handed one to Is and donned the other. With the overcoats buttoned up to the neck, their Harlequin and Columbine outfits were hidden.

  From one pocket, Damien drew out a scarf-like length of fabric. Then, standing over the boot, he raised his fist and brought it down on a spot just above the catch. The lid creaked upward.

  12

  Minutes (hours? seconds? weeks?) of juddering motion, in perfect darkness. Smells of oil, grease, sulphurous exhaust, warm metal. Up then down, down then up. Swaying this way, that way. Someone's knees butting intermittently against his chin.

  Those are my knees, Provender thought. This is me, lying embryonic.

  It was a rare instance of lucidity, and it came in a flash and vanished almost as quickly. For the most part thoughts - any thoughts - were jigsaw-puzzle things that demanded a great deal of effort to piece together. Sometimes Provender seemed to have hold of a fully-formed concept, only to find it crumbled into fragments just when it was about to make sense.

  There were memories, too. Strange, flitting-phantom recollections of recent events.

  Is the Columbine, at the ball.

  The Columbine Is.

  The Columbine is - was - Is.

  Leaving Venice with her.

  Hypodermic.

  Hypodermic.

  And her face, in firework light. Colour-splashed with fields of brilliance.

  And so now he was travelling. He managed to comprehend, eventually, that he was travelling. In motion.

  And he was also lying paralysed, unable so much as to twitch a finger.

  And the hour-second-week minutes rumbled by, until finally, abruptly, they stopped.

  The travelling had stopped.

  He had stopped.

  Provender attempted to roll his head, because that seemed to him like something he might be able to do now that nothing else was in motion. His head lolled rather than rolled, but at least it moved. He had volition. Rollition. Lollition.

  Then there was a booming thud, and a sudden influx of yellowy light. He screwed up his eyes and loll-rolled his head sideways to escape the brightness. Next thing he knew, there was cloth over his eyes. The cloth was being tied behind his head. A blindfold. No more brightness. And the same hands that had put the blindfold on him then grabbed him under the armpits and manhandled him up, out, onto. He was jack-knifed over someone's shoulder. Fireman's lift. He was being carried, through some low-ceilinged, echoing place. Head dangling downward. Nose pressed into the fabric of someone's overcoat. Human lumber.

  A soft ping.

  A rumble of doors.

  The vibration, sway, rattle, trundle of a lift ascending.

  Ascending.

  Ascending for a long time.

  Halting.

  Doors rumbling again.

  'Coast clear?' said the voice of the overcoat, which was also the voice that had shouted by his ear when he was ambushed at the birch copse.

  A pause, then 'Yes'. Another voice. He knew this one as well. The Columbine's.

  More walking. More nosefuls of overcoat odour.

  A door being unlocked; opening.

  Provender was carried for a few more steps, and then the person bearing him dolloped him down on the floor with a grunt of effort, a hiss of relief.

  'Fuck, he wasn't getting any lighter, was he.'

  Provender lay on carpet. Coarse, cheap-feeling carpet. He didn't move. Didn't want to, even if he could have.

  His brain was marginally clearer than it had been. Sense was becoming that much easier to make.

  He was starting to grasp what was happening to him.

  And not to move, not to draw attention to himself, not to do anything that might be construed as defiance or resistance - this, under the circumstances, seemed a very sensible course of action indeed.

  13

  'Carver?'

  'Mrs Gleed.'

  'A word, if you please.'

  'Of course, ma'am.'

  Cynthia drew Carver aside to a quiet corner of the Piazza San Marco. She did this without touching him, her hand hovering near his sleeve.

  The sky was brightening, taking on a pewtery pre-dawn sheen. The ball was starting to wind down. Some guests had already tendered their thanks and left. There would soon be a mass exodus, once the sun rose and its gleam broke the spell of the night irrecoverably. A few diehards might linger on, dancing till the mist dispersed and the dew evaporated, but most partygoers understood that a perfect night finished when the night itself finished.

  'Great's gone to bed?' Cynthia enquired.

  'I wheeled him to the house and tucked him in a couple of hours ago. He would appear to have had a very pleasant time.'

  'I'm glad to hear it. So you have no other duties to attend to.'

  Carver decorously stifled a yawn. 'I was anticipating being able to retire myself, in the not-too-distant future.'

  'Before you do, I've a small favour to ask.'

  'But of course.'

  Tallness in men was not something Cynthia had a problem with, per se, but in Carver's case it wasn't an attractive or appealing quality. Whenever she spoke to him he hulked over her, demanding to be looked up to as well as at. He knew he was doing it, and Cynthia considered it inappropriate in a domestic servant. Notwithstanding that Carver had been with the Gleeds far, far longer than she had, he remained an employee whereas she was Familial. He ought not to behave as if his decades of servitude meant that he outranked her.

  She had the measure of him, however. You treated Carver as you would a dangerous dog: looked him straight in the eye, didn't betray an ounce of intimidation.

  'I haven't seen Provender since well before midnight,' she said.

  'You've checked his room, I take it.'

  'Twice. He's not there. I've no idea where he can have got to, and I think... I have this feeling...' She faltered.

  Carver's scar creased crookedly as he smiled. 'You're worried something may have happened to him? Feminine intuition, ma'am?'

  'It sounds foolish, I know.'

  'Not in the least. Who can fault a mother's instincts? More often than not they are right. However, in this instance, I would like to think they are mistaken, and indeed I'm sure they are. I'm sure no harm has befallen Master Provender. He is almost certainly somewhere on the premises, sequestered perhaps in some remote corner of Venice here. Perhaps a little drunk, who knows? He's apt to take after his uncle in that respect, especially on social occasions.'

  'I've scoured the party site.'

  'Nevertheless. It is a large site and you are just one person. But in order to set your mind at rest, ma'am, allow me to organise a more substantive search. I'll mobilise a number
of security personnel and supervise them personally. We'll find him, have no fear of that.'

  'Thank you, Carver. It goes without saying you'll be discreet. I don't want anyone getting wind that anything might be amiss.'

  'Invisibly discreet, ma'am. Give me an hour and I shall undoubtedly be able to report back to you with good news.'

  An hour passed, and the sun cracked free of the horizon, and the full flow of departures commenced. Cynthia fielded the guests' farewells automatically, clasping hands, pecking cheeks, scarcely knowing whom she was saying goodbye to, or caring. 'Wonderful,' some of the partygoers told her. 'The best yet,' other said. 'Unsurpassable,' said still others, as if throwing down the gauntlet for next year. Cynthia just grinned and nodded, while her gaze kept flicking to the left and right for sign of Carver. What was keeping him? Why was he taking so long to get back to her? She couldn't help but think that the longer the search continued, the less likely it was to yield a positive outcome. The misgiving in her belly was now a knot so tight it hurt. The worst of it was, she simply could not fathom what sort of awful thing might have happened to Provender. She just had this sense, this amorphous inkling, a formless notion of Badness, all the more disquieting because for it to have occurred within the confines of Dashlands, this most protected of places, the Family sanctum, it must be a very bad Badness indeed.

  Threats were constantly being made against the Families - the Families in general, certain Families in particular, sometimes specific Family members. There was a lunatic fringe out there who, for no logical reason, found it impossible to feel anything in their hearts except hatred for those who happened to be better and wealthier than they were. These people penned and published anti-Family screeds, went on television to delivery anti-Family diatribes, made placards and gathered for anti-Family rallies in city squares. They were few in number, thank God, and they were, as a rule, reviled and repudiated by the general public, but still they existed, a virulently vocal minority. And sometimes their sentiments went beyond mere disapproval; sometimes they maintained that the Families were evil and must be destroyed. For the most part this was nothing more than impotent ranting, the caterwaul of lost, sad souls who needed someone else to blame for the mess that was their own lives. The Families were a convenient, high-profile scapegoat for all the ills of the world. But you could not be absolutely certain that one of these madman might not one day graduate from words to actions - indeed, it had happened. Hence a reasonable level of security was necessary at all times, a bulwark against the remote but tangible possibility that some mad, malevolent malcontent would try to take a Family life.

  But how mad and malevolent would you have to be to strike at a Family member in the grounds of their own home? You would have to be utterly determined and quite unhinged. You would have to have no respect for life, your own or anyone else's.

  Cynthia suspected she was letting her imagination run away with her. She was visualising wild-eyed psychopaths where there were none. Still, she couldn't shake the idea that her son was even now lying sprawled and cold on a lawn nearby, victim of a killer so crazed, so puffed up with self-righteous anger, that he actually felt he was doing the world a favour, ridding it of Provender Gleed.

  Come on, Carver. What the hell's keeping you? Put me out of my misery.

  Carver was, as it happened, standing right behind Cynthia as the imprecation ran through her mind, as if the same near-psychic affinity he had with Great enabled him to intuit her thoughts as well. He alerted her to his presence with the most minuscule of coughs.

  'Carver! You've found him, haven't you. You've found him and he's fine.'

  'Ma'am...' It was hard to tell if his mood was graver than normal. Carver habitually looked grave. It was his default demeanour. 'There is something you ought to come and see.'

  He would not be persuaded to reveal more. When pressed, he simply reiterated that she had to come and see, in order to make up her own mind. He did not wish to prejudice her interpretation of the evidence.

  Evidence?

  Cynthia followed him, her thoughts in such turmoil that merely setting one foot in front of the other was a major accomplishment. They headed east out of the party site, exchanging ersatz cobbles and paving stones for morning-moist greensward. Soon they were nearing a small copse of silver birches, beside which stood a handful of security personnel. None of them could meet Cynthia's eye as she approached. Their attitude was one of furtiveness, almost of embarrassment.

  'Well?' she said. It would have sounded more authoritative if her mouth hadn't suddenly gone dry.

  'Over here, ma'am,' said Carver, pointing. 'This patch of grass. There are signs of trampling.'

  'So what?' She was doing her best to be haughty. Somehow that made it easier for her, gave her something to hide behind. 'Nothing suspicious about that. Obviously some guests came out this way.'

  'Maybe, ma'am. But if I might draw your attention to...' Carver pointed again, this time with precise emphasis.

  Cynthia looked.

  On the ground, to the edge of the trampled area of grass, lay a short length of wood.

  A stick.

  Not a tree branch - a lathed utensil.

  Cynthia tried to recall where she had seen it before. Sometime during the past few hours.

  In Provender's hand.

  The earth seemed to give a lurch. There was a dull hum in her ears. Carver was talking to her, saying something to the effect that this wasn't necessarily as sinister as it appeared, no one should jump to any conclusions, there might be a perfectly innocent explanation... Cynthia barely heard him. She stared at the stick, nestled there among those overlapping footprints, dropped, lost.

  It seemed to point to something.

  No, to nothing.

  A headless arrow.

  Provender...

  14

  Some time ago his captors had transferred him to a bathroom. He knew it was a bathroom by the cold tiles underneath him, the faint scents of soap and mildew, and the short shuffling echo that attended every sound. They had removed his cape and bound his wrists and ankles with lengths of plastic-coated cord - electrical flex? Then they had left him there, lying on his side on the floor, still blindfolded, with only his dread for company.

  Nobody had told him he wasn't allowed to move. Nonetheless there was a kind of talismanic allure about staying still. Frightened animals did this, froze, hoping it would somehow render them invisible to carnivores prowling near. To be static was to invite harm to pass you by. So Provender had lain in the same fixed position, until eventually a severe case of cramp made it impossible to continue to do so. Slowly, with the utmost reluctance, he stretched out his arms and straightened his legs. Having completed this manoeuvre without inviting unpleasant consequences, he dared to ease his wrists and ankles around inside their bonds. His hands and feet tingled painfully as the blood flowed into them again.

  By this stage, the effects of whatever drug his captors had injected him with had almost completely worn off. He still felt a little floaty, in a way that reminded him of when he was a child and had spent too long swimming in the sea - the up-and-down of the waves continued to wash within his body for some time after. His mind, however, had regained clarity. His thoughts weren't foggy and fuddled any more, although he might perhaps have preferred it if they were. He comprehended, now, exactly the predicament he was in, and wished he didn't.

  He heard the bathroom door open. A pull-cord switch clicked and an extractor fan wheezed into life. No doubt a light must have come on too, but behind the tight-tied blindfold Provender remained in darkness.

  He cringed as hands touched him, but he sensed almost immediately that the hands didn't belong to the man, the Harlequin. They were Is's.

  'Sit up,' she said.

  He did, with her assistance, resting his back against the side of the bath.

  'I'm just going to roll up your sleeve. OK?'

  His body language must have conveyed why he didn't much like this idea.

&nb
sp; 'I'm not going to give you another injection. I'm taking your blood pressure, that's all.'

  The cuff of a sphygmomanometer was placed around his upper arm, secured with its Velcro fastenings, and inflated. Is then pressed the business end of a stethoscope into the crook of his elbow and let the air out of the cuff.

  'One twenty-five over seventy,' she said. 'That's not bad, given how your heart rate's elevated. I'll check again later, but I'm sure you're going to be fine.'

  As she unfastened the cuff, she added, 'You can speak, you know. You don't have to sit there like a statue.'

  'I can?'

  'Just don't try yelling for help.'

  'Oh. No. Never crossed my mind.'

  'Because there's no point. That's why you're in the bathroom. No windows, no outside walls. Pretty good soundproofing. We'd hear you. No one else would.'

  'I understand.' He gave an uncomfortable little cough. The back of his throat was feeling achey and constricted.

  'Don't try removing the blindfold, either. We'll be able to tell if you have.'

  'What don't you want me to see? Your face? I already have.'

  'There are other reasons. Look, I realise you must be scared, Provender. All I can say is, if everything goes the way it should, there's no need to be.'

  He forced himself to ask, 'And if everything doesn't go the way it should?'

  There was the minutest of pauses. 'To be honest, how all this pans out isn't up to us. It's up to your Family. Their response determines our response.'

  'We have money,' Provender said quickly. 'Lots of money. You know that. Name your price. Any amount. I'm sure my fath--'

  'We'll discuss it later,' said Is. There was a soft clatter as she gathered up her medical equipment. 'I'll be back in an hour to do your BP again and give you some breakfast. Till then - please try not to worry, Provender. And get some sleep if you can.'

  The extractor fan rattled and whirred for a few minutes after she was gone, then lapsed into silence.